


A Uniquely Portable Magic

by waterofthemoon



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Makes Friends, Book Club, Christmas, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Good Omens Holiday Exchange, M/M, One Shot, Opinions About Books, Sharing a Bed, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-19 08:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22308130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterofthemoon/pseuds/waterofthemoon
Summary: After their move to the South Downs, Aziraphale joins a local book club and ends up with more than he bargained for.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 143
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Exchange 2019





	A Uniquely Portable Magic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheOldAquarian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOldAquarian/gifts).



> Written for the prompt "As part of his New Year's Resolution to get out more, Aziraphale starts (or perhaps takes over an existing version of) a book club. Regret ensues immediately." This was my first time participating in the GO Holiday Exchange, and I'm so glad I did - the prompt pushed me out of my comfort zones and was so fun to write for!
> 
> Thanks to chat for their character/plot assistance and eternal support and to Kazeetie for reading this over. ♥ This fic was originally posted to the exchange [here](https://go-exchange.dreamwidth.org/248743.html)!
> 
> It should also be noted for timeline purposes that this fic is set in book verse, so the year is approximately 1993. :D

They moved into the cottage several years after the world didn't end. It's been lovely so far, and Aziraphale knows Crowley agrees. It's just, well.

Aziraphale's _bored_.

When he closed the bookshop for good and moved his collection here, he did a thorough overhaul of the books, cleaning and repairing as needed. It was a project that took the better part of months, and now that it's done and the cottage's spare room, now his library, has been arranged to his liking, he finds himself a bit at loose ends. There's only so much goodwill that can be spread and only so much rearranging one can do around the house—certainly only as much as Crowley will tolerate before having fits about his allergies and not being able to find a blessed thing. He also gave Crowley's favored hobbies of gardening and knitting a try, and the less said about that, the better.

There's a solid three weeks where Aziraphale thinks he might make a go of being an amateur chef. He buys (or miracles up—and perhaps that was the problem?) the right ingredients and equipment, watches the right television programs, follows all the recipes to the letter—but his souffle collapses, his risotto is mushy, and the custard for his trifle won't stop separating no matter how much he glares at it.

The domestic arts, Aziraphale decides, are not for him.

There's really only one hobby he knows he'll never tire of, and that's literature. Reading books, feeling the pleasure derived from a well-turned phrase or a plot twist realized, running his hands over the covers and recalling the worlds contained inside—after Crowley, this is what Aziraphale likes best in the world, where he feels most at home.

The flier, then, is a stroke of good luck. He's picking up some odds and ends at the market when he happens to see it:

BOOK CLUB  
A new book EVERY month  
Come for the food, stay for the discussion!  
Meeting once a month on Thursday evenings  
All are welcome!

"Would you happen to know anything about this?" Aziraphale asks the clerk, a young woman with her black hair in a thick plait. When he indicates the book club flier, her eyes light up a bit in recognition, but then she shrugs and tells him that he can take it with him, if he likes. Aziraphale thanks her and folds it carefully away into his jacket pocket.

At home, he unfolds it and reads it again, more carefully this time. There's no mention of the book they're currently reading, but even if they don't share his tastes, he's certain he can bring them round. The advertisement is enthusiastic enough, and on lovely pale blue paper. Aziraphale steels himself, then picks up the phone and dials.

"Ah—hello!" he says when a female voice answers. "I'm calling about the advertisement I saw in town. The book club? Lovely. Might I ask, what are you reading this month?" He listens to the answer and only barely stops himself from pulling a face, even though only the houseplants are around to see him. "Thank you, so kind. Might I have your address?"

He scribbles this and the title of the book on the back of the flier, bids the woman—whose name is Joyce—farewell, and sits down at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. Crowley finds him like this a little while later when he comes in from the garden.

"Hiya, angel," Crowley says. He drops a kiss in Aziraphale's hair before moving away to wash his hands at the sink. "What's got you down? Trying your hand at culinary greatness again?"

"You know I've given that up," Aziraphale says, now scowling at the reminder. He thrusts the flier at Crowley. "No, it's this."

Crowley picks it up and scans it. "What are you talking about? Seems right up your alley." He looks sidelong at Aziraphale. "Unless you're afraid of a little local competition in the bibliophile department?"

Aziraphale scoffs. " _Hardly_ , and that's the problem. They're reading _modern_ literature. Some title I heard about on the radio, and not to my taste at all, I'm sure."

"Angel," Crowley says, laughing, which only makes Aziraphale scowl harder. "You do know that 'your taste' was popular and modern only a century or so ago, yes? You do _remember_ knowing Wilde, and the Brontës, and Dickens, that wanker, and—oh, going even further back, old Will, and Sappho, and—"

"Yes, yes, I see your point." Aziraphale stares peevishly at the flier. He's willing to concede that Crowley _has_ a point, but he doesn't have to like it.

Crowley sighs and sits down across from him. Aziraphale's still getting used to seeing his eyes whenever he wants, and in the bright afternoon sun of their very own house, not just the muddled light of the bookshop's back room. They're clear and honest now, full of the banked affection he always sees when their eyes meet, and Aziraphale knows he's done for.

"Look, I know you miss meeting people—don't deny it, you _do_ ," Crowley says. "All I'm saying is that you might try giving this a shot. We're retired now! Make friends, get out more, live a little."

"I suppose a little more horizon-broadening never hurts," Aziraphale admits. "Who knows? Perhaps I'll even enjoy—" He consults the back of the flier again. " _The Bridges of Madison County_?"

Crowley's face echoes the one Aziraphale wanted to make earlier. "Eugh. Americans. Have fun, angel."

*

Aziraphale does not, in fact, enjoy the book.

Still, he trudges through the banal prose and exhausting conceit of the narrative, diligently makes notes in a notebook, and otherwise puts the book club out of his mind. He _does_ have a life, no matter what Crowley says. There are beaches to be walked, trips to town to be made, and Crowley to be looked after.

When the Thursday arrives, though, he finds himself clinging a bit closer to home. "Must I go and socialize?" he says into Crowley's chest. It's midday, but they're still in bed—another perk of retirement, to Aziraphale's thinking.

Crowley's slim arms tighten around him, and his answer rumbles through Aziraphale. "You don't have to, but you want to," Crowley says. "No easy outs from this corner, sorry."

Aziraphale pokes him between the ribs, making Crowley twitch. "How do you always know me so well? I sort of hate it."

"Demon," Crowley reminds him. "Perceptive. And, you know, the other thing."

"Yes, dear boy. I love you, too." Aziraphale says. He leans up for a kiss, then pats Crowley's side and levers himself up off the bed. "I suppose we had better get up at some point, anyway."

Later that evening, Aziraphale turns up at Joyce's house, feeling rather trepidatious. Crowley offered to drive him, but the idea of having to borrow a phone and call Crowley to pick him up later made him feel too self-conscious. It isn't terribly far from the cottage, anyway, so he opts for walking.

"Welcome!" says the woman who answers the door. "Are you here to join us? I'm Joyce, by the way."

"Ezra Fell," says Aziraphale. It's the name on the cottage paperwork, and the sounds are close enough for everyday use, anyway. "I hope you don't mind, but I brought—" He offers her the box in his hand.

He had the foresight the day before to pick up some biscuits from his favorite local bakery. A baker's dozen, because Crowley and his unrepentant sweet tooth nicked one before Aziraphale was home ten minutes, just as Aziraphale planned. From the way Joyce's round face lights up, it seems to have been the right move.

"Wonderful! The girls will be thrilled." She takes the box and lets him in behind her. "Please, come in. I'm so glad you actually came! We can always use a fresh perspective."

When he walks through to the kitchen, several women are assembled around the table, talking and laughing. The chatter stops when he walks in. "Hello." He gives a little wave that he hopes isn't as awkward as it feels. "I've come to join the book club! That is, if you'll have me."

"Of course we will," Joyce says, coming in behind him. "Everyone, this is Ezra, the gentleman I told you about. He brought us biscuits, so _be nice_." This last seems to be directed at a sullen 20-something Indian girl, who Aziraphale is startled to recognize behind her heavy eye makeup as the clerk from the market.

"It's you!" he exclaims. "From the grocer's, yes? How are you, dear?"

"Fine," she says, cutting him a wary look. "But I didn't come here to talk about work. Can we get on with the discussion? I'll start: the book sucked."

"Ach, you're just bitter," counters the most senior member of the group. "I'm Maggie," she says to Aziraphale, "and I thought it was a riveting love story. Quite sad, though, how they never saw each other again."

"Do you drink, Ezra?" Joyce asks him. "We have wine, or tea if you prefer."

"Wine, please," he says. "A nice red, I think, if you have it." Joyce hands him a glass and a bottle of inexpensive but drinkable wine. Maggie goes back to knitting a violently purple scarf that Aziraphale eyes with interest—it's a sort of thick, chunky pattern he hasn't seen Crowley attempt yet, perfect for the chilly nights to come when autumn sets in.

"No, it was _rubbish_ , and way too male-centric, and the sex scenes were terrible," the younger woman argues. "I didn't go to _Oxford_ so I could analyze even more books about male fantasies and pretend they're actual literature."

A blonde woman speaks up. "I think you both have good points," she says. "I admit, the prose was a little much—but we all have fantasies about being swept off our feet, don't we? I'm Beth, by the way," she adds to Aziraphale.

Joyce looks sympathetic. "David out of town again, is he? That scoundrel."

"Oh, please don't call him that," Beth says. "He's working, that's all." She looks conflicted, though, and on impulse, Aziraphale touches her hand.

"I'm sure you're right," he says. "It'll all come right in the end." He lets a thread of power flow into her, just enough to soothe her fears. Beth nods, and Aziraphale continues. "Now, as for the book—"

He's interrupted by another woman bursting into the kitchen. "Sorry I'm late! I got tied up at work—oh, hello." She waves at Aziraphale and grins. "Rose hasn't been terrorizing you, has she?"

By process of elimination, Aziraphale deducts that she must mean the young lady with the eye makeup. "On the contrary, I was just about to agree with her points."

"Excellent," the new arrival says as she sits down. "I'm Hannah. Please, continue."

She sweeps her dark hair over her shoulder, and Aziraphale catches the way Rose tracks the movement before looking away. He won't be distracted from the subject at hand, though, and he flips through his notebook.

"Now," he says, sipping his wine, "while I do quite agree that forbidden affairs can be intriguing subject matter, I'm afraid I have to disagree that this was in any way an appealing take on such. I found the protagonists quite dull and engrossed in their own self-importance—and I'm sure the author thought himself clever with his attempts at florid prose, which are, dare I say, lacking in inspiration."

A silence befalls the table, and Aziraphale has half a minute to worry that he's overstepped before Rose opens her mouth.

"Ezra," she says, with an awed tone to her voice that Aziraphale finds it hard to not be flattered by. "You can stay."

*

He goes back the next month, when by mutual agreement they discuss _The Handmaid's Tale_. Aziraphale finds it quite lurid, while Rose and Hannah debate furiously about women's rights and personal freedoms in relation to the text. Beth looks a little wistful on the subject of reproduction, but she offers a smile whenever Aziraphale glances over at her.

"Personally, I'm with you," Joyce says to Aziraphale after the meeting. "A bit too graphic for my taste, eh? But they enjoyed it." She nods at Rose and Hannah, now in animated conversation about a film they both saw.

"Yes," Aziraphale says. He checks his watch. "Oh, I'm late. See you next time?"

Joyce raises an eyebrow. "Got someone waiting for you, then?"

"I'm afraid so. My—" He searches for the contemporary human term. "Partner. Anthony."

"He's lucky, then." Joyce waves him off. "Go on, go home. We won't keep you from him."

Aziraphale waves his goodbyes and heads home. When he gets there, Crowley is flipping channels with little flicks of his finger at the television, but he turns it off when Aziraphale comes in.

"You're late," Crowley informs him. He budges up on the sofa without complaint, though, and Aziraphale sits down beside him.

"Sorry, dear," Aziraphale says. He leans against Crowley's side, and Crowley wraps an arm around him, pulling him close. "The discussion got rather heated. And," he adds only a little smugly, "I convinced them to read your pick for next time. Or re-read, for some of them."

About a week ago, Aziraphale was, having inquired about the book club's recent history, lamenting their trend toward choosing current bestsellers almost exclusively. Crowley listened to him— _very_ patiently, Aziraphale thought—and eventually tossed a book at him from across the sitting room. A battered paperback, not one from Aziraphale's collection. Aziraphale barely caught it and turned it over to reveal the title: _Pride and Prejudice_ , one of Crowley's especial favorites.

"Good old Jane," Crowley says now with a grin. "Now there's a woman who knew what she was about. You'll tell me if any of them are wrong about it, won't you? Only I won't stand for anyone disparaging Lizzy."

"I'm hoping it won't be an issue," Aziraphale says. "Though Maggie's already said how much she admires Mr. Darcy, so there might be some contention from Rose's quarter. She does so enjoy starting controversy."

"Psh." Crowley waves a hand in dismissal. "Maggie, eh? I knew I liked her."

Aziraphale sits up very suddenly as a thought occurs to him. "Oh, that reminds me! I told her you were a novice knitter—don't look at me like that, I know you learned centuries ago, but you really haven't been doing it long with the materials they have these days—and she said she had some intermediate patterns she'd be willing to let you copy." He laughs a little. "She also claimed they were older than I am, but you know how it is."

"Ah, if they knew, they wouldn't believe it," Crowley says with a laugh of his own. "Come back here, you're warm."

"Quite," Aziraphale agrees as he snuggles back into Crowley's side. "Anyway, will you come with me to meet her for tea this weekend? I think the two of you would get along smashingly."

Crowley pretends to grouse about it, but Aziraphale can tell he's secretly pleased about being included. "Oh, I suppose," he says. "Haven't got anything else on. Besides, if I go with you, maybe it'll stop you from bringing home half the bakery."

Aziraphale truly wants to be offended. Just at present, though, he's far too comfortable to work up the proper indignation. "Not quite the thwarting we used to do, is it?"

"No," Crowley says with a kiss to his temple, "but this is better."

*

They do end up meeting Maggie at the local bakery and tea shop, a not quite fashionable place that is nevertheless full of charm. Aziraphale watches in amusement as she and Crowley approach each other like wary cats until Maggie breaks the ice.

"You must be Ezra's young man!" she exclaims. "And so handsome, too."

Crowley preens under the praise, straightening his posture and adjusting his suit lapels. Aziraphale rolls his eyes.

"Yes, this is my Anthony," he says. His use of the possessive gets Crowley preening in his direction instead, which is much more satisfactory.

"I heard you're the terror of the book club _and_ the lady to see about colorful knitwear," Crowley says.

Maggie puts a hand to her chest. "Well, the first part is simply not true, and the second—" She raises an eyebrow at Aziraphale. They all sit down, and Crowley lounges in his seat, kicking his feet under Aziraphale's chair.

"Oh—I mentioned the lovely scarf you were making the first time we met," Aziraphale explains. "Did you finish it?"

"Yes, thank you, and it was well appreciated," Maggie says. "But on the subject, I brought some bits and bobs you might be interested in." She nods at Crowley. "Not to be impolite, but I have to say, I wouldn't have pegged you as such. Especially not when you go about town in suits like that. What do you do, then?"

"Sorry?" Crowley says.

"Hedge fund manager? Stock broker?"

"Er," Crowley hesitates, glancing at Aziraphale. "Retired," he decides. "Early, you know." He leans in closer to Maggie, conspiratorial-like. "I'm not as young as I look, either."

"Oh!" She giggles, charmed. "I'll tell you a secret—neither am I." Crowley throws his head back and laughs, and Aziraphale smiles in relief.

They talk and drink their tea for a while longer. Aziraphale is happy to let the other two carry the conversation as they talk about handicrafts and Maggie goes through her patterns, which are yellowing and tattered at the creases. Just for fun, and to prove he still can, he sets a blessing on Maggie's project bag. Crowley whips his head up at the unexpected use of power, but Aziraphale just smiles at him.

At the end of teatime, when they're standing and getting ready to depart, Maggie pulls Aziraphale aside.

"I know we just met, and I don't want to be a bother to you," she starts.

"Not at all," Aziraphale says. She looks fretful now, and he lays a stabilizing hand on her shoulder. "Tell me what the trouble is."

Crowley raises his eyebrows in question, and Aziraphale nods at him in a gesture that he hopes conveys, _yes, I'm all right, and do bring the car around, please_. Crowley nods back and leaves without looking sulky about it, anyway.

"It's my grandson," Maggie confesses. "He's just finished university, in the spring, and he's having a time of it finding his way, I don't mind telling you. And he's like you, you know, with your Anthony, so I just thought—" She hesitates. "I mean, would you mind praying with me? For him?"

Aziraphale finds himself slightly taken aback by the request, but he manages to recover himself in time. "Of course, dear girl."

He’s never felt quite comfortable, praying like the humans do. Fortunately, Maggie seems to find her own words sufficient, and she voices her hopes for her grandson to be safe, to be successful, to be loved. Aziraphale holds her hand and wishes that he were better at this.

"Thank you," Maggie says when she's finished. "I wasn't positive whether you were a godly man or not, but it's nice to just have someone there, isn't it?"

"Yes. I'm afraid I was quite devoted once, but I'm a bit lapsed now," Aziraphale confesses. It's the simplest explanation. "I'll see you Thursday?"

They say their goodbyes, and Aziraphale gets in the waiting Bentley. "Tell you later," he says in response to Crowley's inquisitive raised eyebrow.

Crowley nods and pulls out onto the road. "I think I'm going to change my look," he says after a couple minutes of driving. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel and looks sidelong at Aziraphale. "I know you like my suits, but how do you feel about denim?"

"You look ravishing no matter what," Aziraphale replies automatically, keeping an eye on the road because someone has to while Crowley's flirting with him. Then a thought occurs to him, and he turns in his seat. "You won't, ah—"

"Yes, we can keep the ties," Crowley says. He sounds like someone who would be quite put out, if only he could stop smiling long enough. Against all road safety advice, Aziraphale leans over and kisses him where his eyes have gone extra crinkly at the corner.

"Honestly," Crowley huffs, but he reaches out and tangles their fingers together, and he drives one-handed the rest of the way home.

*

Austen is an unqualified hit with the book club, to both Crowley and Aziraphale's deep satisfaction.

Crowley, because Aziraphale recanted both Beth's poignant admiration of Mr. Darcy and Hannah's wonderful and quite irreverent impression of Mrs. Bennet, which saw her dramatically swooning in Rose's general direction. Crowley was in stitches by the end of it and was also swearing blind that Rose and Hannah would end up together.

Aziraphale, because he felt that the classics became so for a reason and that the rest of the club only needed to give them a chance, a theory that was now bearing fruit.

They've already decided to read _The Importance of Being Earnest_ for the next month, and not at his suggestion, either, although certainly at his encouragement. When they were discussing potential titles, Joyce remembered that she went to see it being performed at a small university theatre the year before and loved the wordplay and quick wit. Aziraphale, who was personal friends with Oscar Wilde, quite agrees, though his true preference runs more toward _Dorian Gray_. However, he can always appreciate a good comedy of manners.

For the most part, though, the book club doesn't impact his daily life. He's friendly to the others when he sees them about town, and Crowley and Maggie have become well enough acquaintances, but they don't socialize, really. This suits Aziraphale, if he's being honest with himself, as neither he nor Crowley do much gadding about these days.

That all changes one night. Crowley's cooking a light supper for them in the kitchen, having decided to pick up the slack in that department. He's becoming very good at it—or at least Aziraphale, blinded somewhat by love and gratitude, thinks so—and at least the cooking implements aren't collecting dust.

When Aziraphale hears the knock on the door, he grumbles a little because it means setting his wine glass down and relinquishing his very comfortable perch on the countertop. He doesn't expect to see Beth at the door.

"I hope I'm not bothering you," she says when he ushers her in. She twists her hands together as she talks. "I just—I feel really alone, right now? The office has got David traveling again, so it's just me, and—oh, hello."

Aziraphale half turns to see Crowley in the doorway to the kitchen, red apron slung low across his jeans and dark glasses materialized out of the ether to sit decidedly on his face. "Are you staying for dinner, then?" he asks, and oh, Aziraphale loves him.

"Anthony, this is Beth, you remember, from the club." He turns back to Beth. "Please stay, my dear. We don't often have company, so we'd be delighted to have you."

Beth looks between them, then nods. "If you're sure I won't be imposing," she says.

"Not at all," Aziraphale says firmly. "Come, you'll help me set the table."

"Shouldn't be too much longer," Crowley says as he disappears back into the kitchen. Aziraphale leads Beth into the sunroom, where he and Crowley take most of their meals, the better to take in the scenery and look out on Crowley's garden. They have a little table that's just right for two, and with just the tiniest coaxing when Beth's not looking, it becomes cozy enough for three.

They set out place mats and candles and the real silver flatware Aziraphale bought in Italy in the late 1800s. They're almost finished when Beth stops, clutching a napkin in her hands.

"I want a child." Her voice breaks a little. Aziraphale looks up and is stricken to see tears start to form in her eyes. Crowley's always been better at dealing with that sort of thing.

It's fortunate, then, that the moment is interrupted by Crowley entering the room, bearing the shrimp scampi linguine and roasted vegetables.

"Oh—do sit down and we'll talk about it," Aziraphale says. His hands feel shaky and ill-suited, somehow. "I'll fetch the wine, shall I? Thank you for cooking, dearest." He kisses Crowley's cheek, then heads back to the wine rack off the kitchen.

When he comes back, Beth is no longer crying, thank goodness, although she still looks upset and is talking quietly with Crowley.

"I want David and I to—to start our family together," she says, voice a little wobbly. "But he's always working. And whenever I try to bring it up, he says we're too young, or we aren't ready."

"Eat," Crowley says. There's a small compulsion in there, but a kind one. "It'll help. Then tell me about David."

Beth obediently takes a bite of her food as Aziraphale sits down and begins uncorking the wine. "You made this? Not half bad, really. Could use a bit more garlic."

A half-smirk pulls at the corner of Crowley's mouth. "Thanks for the tip. Angel, wine? We need it for this."

"Right here," Aziraphale says, pouring Crowley's glass and handing it over. He fills his own next, followed by Beth's when she nods at him.

They eat and drink for a few minutes in somewhat comfortable silence, then Beth tells them, in vague terms, about her husband. He doesn't seem like such a bad sort, although Aziraphale has a few doubts about his suitability for marriage and fatherhood.

While she talks, Beth's eyes keep darting between him and Crowley like she's doing complicated sums. Aziraphale's seen it before, in humans. He's prepared for her to comment on their relationship, but not for what she actually says.

"You're so good together," she says with a wistful sigh. "That's what Maggie said, too, she said—oh, Ezra, I shouldn't tell you—"

"Tell me," Crowley suggests. "C'mon, I won't spill."

"Never, I don't trust you an inch," Beth replies playfully. Crowley shrugs and waves at her to continue. "My point is, you take care of each other. You pay attention. It's nice, that's all." She pauses. "If you don't mind me asking, how long have you been together?"

"Goodness," Aziraphale says, meeting Crowley's eyes across the table. He dates the official beginning of their romance to just after Armageddon, but he thinks Crowley privately counts from the first time they kissed, which is centuries back. "Nearly four years now, I should think. But we danced around each other for a bit before that."

"A bit?" Crowley squawks. He turns to Beth. "He just doesn't want you to know that we've known each other since the Earth was new—"

"Sometimes it feels that way, anyway," Aziraphale interjects.

"—and I had to spend most of our lives courting him before he even admitted he was looking my way, can you believe it?" Crowley throws up his hands, aggrieved.

Aziraphale watches, then, as Crowley's fond-yet-exasperated expression shifts into something far more gooey and almost embarrassingly tender. "Got you in the end, though, didn't I?"

"Oh, you," Aziraphale says. He can feel himself blushing and wills his body to kindly knock it off. "Stop that, we've got a guest."

Beth laughs, shaking her head at the pair of them, which is likely well-deserved. "I should probably be going, anyway. Thanks for dinner, and for keeping me company."

"No, please stay," Aziraphale says. "We haven't finished discussing your problem yet, and I picked up some lovely cake when I was at the shops today."

Crowley nods. "You really ought to try this cake. It's practically divine."

It doesn't even take a supernatural nudge to sway her this time. "Well—I suppose I could stay for a bit longer."

*

They talk with Beth for a while longer and leave her feeling better, Aziraphale thinks. He hopes that with proper motivation and commitment, particularly on David's part, it'll all work out just fine.

(Crowley, of course, doesn't think so. He says that about most relationships that aren't theirs, though, so Aziraphale doesn't pay him any mind.)

He thinks her visit is going to be an anomaly, but then he finds himself inviting her over again the following week, sensing her loneliness. They also have Maggie and her gentleman caller Seth over another night, and they play charades after dinner to everyone's delight, even Crowley's once he gets into the spirit of it. And then he gets a phone call from Rose at two in the morning.

"I'm sorry," she hiccups when he answers. "I shouldn't have called at this time of night. My mum would kill me for being so rude."

"It's all right," Aziraphale assures her, sitting up in bed and clearing the side effects of sleep from his body. With his free hand, he waves off Crowley's mumbled protest that sounds suspiciously like "no, it's not," but then strokes down Crowley's back in soothing motions, which settles him.

"I just, I was dating this girl I knew at school?" Her voice gets steadier as she talks. "And it's been going, you know, fine. Wasn't always fireworks or anything, but I figured, see what happens, why not."

"And what did happen?" Aziraphale asks.

Beside him, Crowley's curiosity seems to win out over his desire to be petted, and he drags himself up to lie in repose, propped up on his elbow. "Who is it?" he asks, _sotto voce_.

Aziraphale covers the receiver with his hand. "Rose," he answers, just as quietly. "Terribly upset." Into the phone, he says, "Do go on, dear girl."

"Well, like I was saying," Rose says, "she said it was because I made her feel stupid, even though, like, we were in the same classes at Oxford, and she was no slouch, either. Like, that's why I was attracted to her in the first place."

"Mmmm," Aziraphale answers. He's distracted by Crowley's hand tangling in the phone cord, so much that he almost misses the other hand snaking around his waist to reach for the speaker button. Aziraphale is faster, though, and grabs Crowley's hand to pull it back. After a moment, he relents and lets Crowley cuddle on his chest, adjusting the phone so Crowley can hear better.

"Anyway, so it turned out that her saying that was a cover up, because she was actually more upset that I'm as smart as she is _and_ Indian, and apparently, I'm supposed to downplay one or both of those. So like, fuck her, right?" Rose laughs a little. "But I still miss her, and it's still shitty, you know?"

"Absolutely," Aziraphale says. "I am sorry it didn't work out, but you don't deserve to be treated like that. You should be with someone who celebrates all of who you are." Crowley squeezes his side, and Aziraphale smiles.

"Thanks, Ezra," Rose says. "That means a lot. Oh, and just so you know, I'm stress cooking this week as a result of all this, all my mum's recipes to really stick it to Evelyn, so come hungry on Thursday. Bring Tupperware, too. There is way too much fucking food in my flat."

"That sounds delightful," Aziraphale says, getting distracted now by thoughts of curry and samosas. "I look forward to it, and to hearing your thoughts on the Shelley."

"Mary Shelley was an icon," Rose says fervently. She yawns. "All right, I think I can manage sleep now, at least. Thanks for listening to me rant, and sorry again for waking you up."

"Not at all," Aziraphale says. "Sleep well."

They hang up, but Crowley doesn't budge from his spot, so Aziraphale has to work around him to drag the covers back over them. He fusses so long that Crowley snaps his fingers and fixes them via miracle. Aziraphale kisses his head in thanks and settles down amongst the pillows, scritching his fingers through Crowley's dark hair.

"So, you're bringing me Indian on Thursday?" Crowley asks.

"Mmmm. It seems so, though I can't attest to her skills in that department yet."

Crowley pauses. "You're good at that. Helping them. Being there. Showing up, all that."

"Me?" Aziraphale scoffs. "No, it's, you know, ingrained, some of it. Innate. And most of the rest is just ordinary politeness. I do care, but you must know that I have to work at it." He tugs at a lock of Crowley's hair. "You're the one I admire. I can't do anything with tears and hysterics, or with children."

"Y' just gotta put yourself in their shoes, and think of something calming to say." Crowley snuggles down harder. "Think about what would help you. 'S not that hard."

Aziraphale slides his hand down from Crowley's hair and starts rubbing his back again in gentle, slow circles. "I suppose we both still have things to learn from each other."

"Be awfully boring otherwise," Crowley mumbles, yawning, and then he's asleep. Aziraphale follows shortly after, holding Crowley close.

*

Joyce is next to confide in him. "I'm thinking about going back to school," she says over the phone one Sunday, following their discussion of _Frankenstein_ , Hannah's spooky pick for October. Aziraphale remembers, now, her mentioning that she wishes she could keep up better with the allegories in Shelley's work, but he put it out of his mind at the time.

Before she called, Aziraphale was spending the afternoon quite peaceably, reading a volume of poetry with his head resting on Crowley's thigh as Crowley played with his hair and watched cooking shows with an intense focus. A part of him is inexorably drawn back to the sofa, but he wrests his attention to the conversation at hand.

"I mean, I'm only 43, for God's sake," Joyce says. "And my kids are out of the house, so what's really stopping me? Did you ever go to university?"

Aziraphale did, in fact, briefly attend a literature course several decades ago. The experiment ended when he was asked to leave for strenuously disagreeing with the lecturer about historical events he was actually present for, which he felt was truly unjust. Is it his fault the historians got it all wrong?

"Not really," he says, instead of getting into the whole unfortunate tale.

"I never finished my degree, you know," she says. Aziraphale hums in acknowledgment. "I had my Brenda instead. And of course I wouldn't trade her or the others for anything, but sometimes—" Joyce seems to stop herself. "Oh, why am I telling you all this? Sorry, I haven't even asked about your life. How's Anthony?"

Their downstairs phone is in the kitchen, and Aziraphale peeks through the doorway at Crowley, still draped artlessly over the sofa. Gratifyingly, Crowley keeps glancing over to the empty side of the couch, as if to see whether Aziraphale's coming back yet.

"He's wonderful," Aziraphale sighs.

Joyce makes a disapproving noise. "Come now, we're friends, aren't we? No one is as soppy in love all the time as you two pretend to be. Tell me _one_ thing that annoys you about him."

Aziraphale can scarcely remember a time in all their history when he wasn't at least a little bit in love with Crowley. "Hmmm. I'm afraid I'll have to take a rain check on that," he says, gazing at Crowley, who can definitely hear him.

"He's there, isn't he?" Joyce demands.

"Very much so." Aziraphale sighs. "I've got to go, but I'll see you in town."

The next time he runs into Joyce without Crowley around, though, he pulls her aside and says, "He's far too compulsive about keeping things tidy, and he mail orders horrible romance novels and hides them in my library. Don't tell a _soul_. I won't have this getting back to him."

"Not a word," Joyce promises. She gives him a conspiratorial grin. " _My_ husband had to buy me new fabric scissors because he used mine to clip coupons, can you believe it? Like I haven't told him a hundred times already."

"Well, what can you do," Aziraphale says. They share a laugh, and he feels, finally, like he might be settling in.

*

For November, Beth insists on reading something more current and suggests a fairy tale published only a few years ago.

"It's very good," she says. "Not your usual retelling, and literary, too. Even you'll enjoy it, Ezra." The last is said with a wink.

Aziraphale has his doubts, but he dutifully picks up a copy of _Howl's Moving Castle_ and is instantly absorbed in the world of Ingary. When he finishes, he hands it over to Crowley.

Crowley is, as Aziraphale thought, even more moved by it than he was. Aziraphale catches him reading in the garden, wiping away a stray tear as he reaches the ending.

"They're a bit like us, eh?" Crowley says that evening in the kitchen. He wraps his arms around Aziraphale from behind, swaying in place. "Two stubborn old fools with magic."

"Two stubborn fools in _love_ ," Aziraphale corrects. He turns in Crowley's hold and reaches up to stroke his face. "But please don't go about the countryside giving your heart away."

"Never," Crowley promises as their lips meet. "'S already yours, anyway."

Aziraphale has no choice but to kiss him again at that, and again. "Do you fancy going out tonight, or would you rather stay in?"

"Hmmm. Let's stay in tonight." Crowley walks them backwards and cages Aziraphale up against the counter. "I forgot to mention it earlier, but I've always found you hideously attractive in that jumper."

Aziraphale makes a show of glancing down. The jumper he's wearing is soft and warm, somewhat uneven in places, and in Aziraphale's favorite shade of light blue. "Crowley. You know very well that you made this one."

"So I did," Crowley says. "It's a good job you look good in anything."

His hands are already playing at the hem, brushing against Aziraphale's waist. Aziraphale slides his hands up the back of Crowley's shirt and pulls him even closer.

"Flatterer," Aziraphale murmurs, practically into Crowley's mouth.

When they part again, several minutes later, he says, a little breathlessly, "Well, if we aren't going out, we may as well just go to bed. Unless you'd rather I put the kettle on, and we could—"

"Nope," Crowley says. He nips at Aziraphale's jaw and squeezes his bottom. "Bed. Come on, angel."

*

Hannah is the last to come to him, over tea at the cottage one chilly afternoon. "Like, I don't even know what's wrong with me? Everything can be perfectly fine, and then I get set off by something, and suddenly I feel like having a nervous breakdown. That's not normal, is it?"

"I prefer to believe that there's no such thing as normal," Aziraphale says. "It's all relative, after all."

"What is?" Hannah asks.

"You know," Aziraphale says vaguely, having not expected to be pressed on this point. "Everything. Humans, relationships, the very fabric of society itself. You might not believe some of the things your— _our_ ancestors believed in."

Hannah grins. "I might. I took some anthropology classes as electives when I was doing my degree. But never mind that. About relationships…." She hesitates. "It's about Rose. I think, I might like her that way?"

"Oh, my dear." Aziraphale feels himself beaming and reaches across the table to clasp Hannah's hand in both of his. Honestly, it's about time one of them came to terms with it. "I'm certain she feels the same way. You ought to court her at once. I can offer some advice, or books on the subject?"

"You might be sure, but I'm not," Hannah says, biting her lip. "Ugh, she's so hard to read sometimes! But I like that, too, that she can be challenging and difficult. I could never be with someone who didn't push me."

Aziraphale is reminded of him and Crowley, pushing and guiding each other for nearly six thousand years. "I understand completely," he says.

"And I get nervous, too, thinking about how I'm probably going to screw it up, or she's going to get tired and leave me and our group, and it'll be all my fault." Hannah sighs deeply. "Sorry I'm such a nutter. I can deal with it most of the time, but sometimes it all comes out at once. Thanks for listening, though."

"No trouble at all," Aziraphale says. "I really think you ought to consider talking to Rose, though. I have sort of a—sixth sense about love and that sort of thing." It's almost the truth, anyway.

Hannah considers this, then smiles. "You know, Ezra," she says. "I really might."

*

At the end of the November book club meeting, Maggie suggests _A Christmas Carol_ as their book for December. "It's a classic!" she keeps insisting. " _And_ it's seasonal."

"Ooh, I had to read that one in school," Hannah says. "I remember being freaked out by the ghosts, sort of, and then having to write a really boring essay. I wouldn't mind an excuse to read it again for fun."

Rose, who usually leans more towards Aziraphale's taste, cuts a look at Hannah and then says, "Yeah, okay. If you want to, let's do it." Hannah beams in response.

Aziraphale's never cared much for Charles Dickens or his work, but he doesn't have the heart to say so when they're all so excited, and especially not when he can sense the first flutterings of young love. And he has to admit, rereading his Christmas tale while cozy on the sofa with Crowley drowsing next to him, a blanket wrapped around them both while the weather outside turns damp and cold does put him in more of a holiday spirit.

"I think I'd like to host a holiday party," Aziraphale says later that week. "For my club, you know, and some of the neighbors as well."

Crowley looks up from misting the plants. "Here, you mean?"

"Why not?" He turns in place, surveying the sitting room. It'll do, perhaps with a bit of encouragement. "We've room enough to have them for an evening, and they've been good to us."

"Oh, fine," Crowley says. He goes back to misting and scowls when he has to pluck a dead leaf off one of them. "I suppose they're not a bad sort, really. But I'm not playing bloody charades."

Aziraphale understands his apprehension. It's not the type of thing either of them did when they lived in London. But he actually _likes_ the people here, some of them, and it also feels like the type of place where opening one's home at the holidays is the done thing.

So they have the book club over, and a few people from the nearby cottages, and the clerk at the plant shop who's become something of an acquaintance of Crowley's, and several other people they know in town who Aziraphale thought it might look bad to not invite. Crowley thinks of adding the young witch they met during that whole nasty business in Tadfield, whose name escapes their memory but who gets the invitation in the post anyway.

"It's _Anathema Device_ ," she says scathingly when she calls them to confirm. "Not—whatever this is on the envelope. And yes, I'll be there. Plus one, please."

Aziraphale decorates in the classic English Christmas style, tree nearly as tall as the cottage included, and wears a green velvet waistcoat to match the decor; Crowley makes snacks, spikes the punch, and tries not to roll his eyes too hard at the proceedings. Really, it's very sweet.

All told, it's a rather more full house than Aziraphale originally anticipated, but he finds he doesn't mind terribly much. The atmosphere is bright and festive, the conversation is lively, and even Crowley seems glad enough to have the company. Aziraphale watches him greet their guests and admires the dashing figure he cuts in his suit, which he recreated for the occasion.

He's interrupted by Anathema approaching him. "So, this is where you live now? With him?" She jerks a thumb at Crowley.

"Oh, yes," Aziraphale says. "We're quite irrevocably devoted, I'm afraid. And you? How are things going with your young man? I see you brought him tonight, wonderful."

Anathema brushes off the question. "We're just fine, thanks. Do you think that's wise, what you're doing?" She lowers her voice, glancing around. "I mean, the amount of power centered over this place… it's like a beacon to anyone with eyes."

Aziraphale looks into her stubborn glare and is reminded, very suddenly, that she is the only human here with any sense of his and Crowley's true nature. As such, he considers his next words carefully.

"Crowley and I are more than capable of protecting our home, if it comes to that," he says, in a low tone that he hopes will brook no argument. "So far, it hasn't. What's more, we spent far too long not acting on what we feel for each other. If continuing to live in this world means that I now have the chance to love him without hesitation, as he deserves, then goodness, I think that was worth it, don't you?"

"Well, I do," Crowley says from behind him. Crowley loops an arm around his shoulders, and Aziraphale lets some of the fight go out of him. "Seriously, don't worry, book girl. This house is dead safe. Warded and everything."

"I don't _trust_ you," Anathema hisses. "Either of you. But...." She hesitates. "I came tonight to see what you two have been up to. You really are making a life here, aren't you?"

"We are," Aziraphale says, and means it.

Anathema nods. "I suppose that's all right, then." She turns on her heel and rejoins Newt, who's awkwardly chatting with Beth, her husband David, and Greg from the plant shop.

"Enjoy the party!" Aziraphale calls after her.

"She'll be back," Crowley predicts. "And if not, her loss." He releases Aziraphale and offers his arm, as they used to do when such was fashionable. "Care to mingle with me? You know I never know what to say."

Aziraphale is about to accept when the rest of the book club comes rushing up and closes ranks in front of them.

"Joyce let it slip that you have a library," Beth says, eyes shining.

Maggie adds, "We want to see it, if you don't mind. Bound to be some weird books in there, since it's you."

Rose and Hannah, who are very conspicuously holding hands—good on them, Aziraphale thinks—give him equally hopeful looks. Joyce offers only a helpless, apologetic shrug.

"Yes, all _right_ ," Aziraphale says, smiling in spite of himself. He locked the doors to the library and the bedroom before the party, and he pulls the brass key from his trousers pocket, just where he expects to find it.

"Solo mingling it is, then," Crowley says cheerfully. "I'll try to keep the traumatizing stories to a minimum, just for you."

Aziraphale kisses his cheek, then gestures to the women to follow him. "Come this way, please. It might be a bit more than you expect," he adds, remembering the spot of convincing he had to do to fit everything in. "You know, it used to be a bookshop…."

*

"Hey, I have something for you," Crowley says when the party's over.

They've changed into pajamas—black silk for Crowley, tartan flannel for Aziraphale—and are sprawled next to each other on the sofa, worn out with entertaining but pleased with a job well done. It was a wonderful evening, all told, but the best part is getting Crowley and their quiet house back at the end of it.

"It's not the solstice yet," Aziraphale replies, confused. They've been celebrating midwinter festivals since they were first invented, and neither of them saw any reason to change the date just because the humans did.

Crowley shakes his head. "It's not a solstice gift, or anything like that. Just something I picked up. Wait here."

There's a glint in his eye that Aziraphale definitely doesn't like. Crowley pats Aziraphale's knee and gets up, then digs around in the hall closet until he finally unearths a small, rectangular package wrapped in brown paper. Aziraphale takes it from him, cautiously, and opens it.

" _The Countess' Forbidden Conquest_? Crowley, really," Aziraphale huffs. The cover of the book features two women with heaving bosoms clinched in an embrace—one blonde, one brunette, Aziraphale notices.

"Figured I should just give it to you straight out," Crowley says with a grin, resuming his seat. "I was running out of hiding places. Hey, maybe you could loan it to those girls in your club. Give them some pointers, you know."

Aziraphale sets the book on the side table. "Absolutely not," he says as primly as he can. "You gave it to me, so of course I'll cherish it forever, even as cliche and overwritten as it undoubtedly is. We'll need to add more room to the library if this continues, however."

Crowley sighs dramatically and flops over on him. With his head pillowed on Aziraphale's chest, he says, "Give it ten years, and it'll be like living in the bloody bookshop again. Whole house full of books."

"If we're very lucky," Aziraphale says, and he leans over to kiss away Crowley's pout.

*

"But it's simply not feasible," Aziraphale argues. He takes a long sip of his wine and gestures with one hand. "I've never really gone in for the sciences, but I'm certain genetics doesn't work like that. Well. Fairly certain."

It's January, and the book club has convened for what's turned into a philosophical discussion on _Jurassic Park_ —the novel, not the film, which Aziraphale watched at Crowley's behest. "Besides," he adds desperately, "I was—I've _read_ that there might not even have actually been dinosaurs, and that whole thing was just a big misunderstanding."

The rest of the group gives him extremely skeptical looks. "Nah," Rose says. "Now I know you're pulling our chain. We've all _seen_ them at the Natural History Museum. The bones, that is."

"The book's not even really about the dinosaurs, though, is it?" Joyce asks, who's just started taking a literature course at the University of Brighton.

"I mean, on the surface level, yes," says Hannah. "Dinosaurs are wicked cool. But—look, it goes back to _Frankenstein_ in a way, doesn't it? The hubris of creation, and all that."

Rose reaches out and interlocks their fingers under the table, so subtly that Aziraphale almost missed it. "And men thinking they need to control everything like always."

"Oh, well said, honey," Hannah replies, smiling in a way that makes Rose duck her head and blush uncharacteristically.

"I'll drink to that," Maggie says, and she does so before taking up her knitting again. It's the sleeve of a jumper in a rainbow variegated yarn, intended for her grandson. "Sorry, Ezra, but Seth and I are on the outs again." Aziraphale, who's never actually been a man, just waves her off.

"Can we grow dinosaurs? Still up for debate," Beth says. " _Should_ we grow dinosaurs? Almost definitely not."

"Should we listen to mad scientists conducting secret experiments with no regard for public safety?" Rose continues. "Definitely, definitely not."

They all break out into giggles, and Joyce shakes her head. "Can I get anyone a refill?"

Aziraphale and Hannah hold their glasses up. Beth declines, however. "Better not. David and I are thinking about trying soon," she says with a shy smile. "We're seeing someone now, you know. Couples therapy."

"That's wonderful," Aziraphale says. "I hope it all works out for you two." He considers giving her a nudge in the fertility department, but dismisses it when he remembers that the medical sciences really _aren't_ his strong suit, and settles for an encouraging smile instead.

The chatter goes on for a while longer, and Aziraphale lets it wash over him as he surveys the room. It's not exactly what he pictured when they moved here; he had, in fact, expected to avoid making close friends at all. But this is good—this is better, this is _important_. And when the club meeting ends, Crowley is waiting outside with the Bentley, smiling and ready to take him home.


End file.
